


Whose Line Is It Anyway

by EternalEclipse



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Drama, Gen, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Slash, Season/Series 02, Snark, Steter Secret Santa, Trauma, also known as 'what if derek told peter things, and let him do his job
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-26 12:13:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17141549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EternalEclipse/pseuds/EternalEclipse
Summary: Derek tells Peter about overhearing Scott talking to Gerard during the kanima massacre at the police station. Peter doesn't think that Scott planned it.





	Whose Line Is It Anyway

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GraduallyBecomesADisaster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GraduallyBecomesADisaster/gifts).



> Giftfic for graduallybecomesadisaster on tumblr, I hope you enjoy it! 
> 
> Apologies for being a couple days late, I've been traveling a lot so I hadn't had the opportunity to get it up before ^^;

Stiles loves his Jeep. Everyone who knows him knows just how much he dotes on it. It stands out in parking lots, runs on even the bumpiest paths in the preserve, and eventually it grows on everyone much in the way of Stiles himself—exposure is key.

It’s also needed repairs fairly frequently throughout its entire life, even more so once Stiles had found himself caught up in all the supernatural business. Stiles had shelled out for it the first few times he’d found himself at the shop, but this time he just wondered if he wasn’t fighting a losing battle. He patted the car’s hood before leaving it in his driveway, heading for his old bike instead. The school wasn’t too far away, and there was no reason not to get his exercise, especially if he was going to be running away from werewolves later.

Werewolves, and not whatever had paralyzed him and the mechanic—who he was definitely not thinking about. No, sir, not at all.

The first day, focusing on getting back used to his bike was enough of a distraction to see him to school. No one really said anything that day. Scott looked tired for some reason, but was happy enough to force him to run messages between him and Allison. Stiles was skeptical about the whole thing, but he still didn’t have to think about his own issues too much if he was worrying about what Scott was up to this time.

That resolution lasted half a day, just long enough for the monster to show up again. And he still didn’t die, even if his arms might have become a casualty to the cause, and maybe his pride as well, when Derek decided he wasn’t worth anything even after saving his life for hours in the pool. Stiles tried to pretend it didn’t matter to him, and maybe it didn’t right then.

He’d spent those hours having an extended anxiety attack. The monster looked like it could swim, so the only thing stopping it from killing them anyway was its own mental block, and Stiles knew better than to count on that in the long term. Still, he hadn’t died, no one died that time, and he got to go home to cry into his pillow.

It was a win-win all around. And if, the next morning, he looked at Roscoe and ended up skipping his first two periods to have an anxiety attack, that was solely his own business.

Besides, he was saving gas money by taking his bike. No problem with that.

* * *

Over the next few weeks, Stiles settled into a new normal. He told Scott that Roscoe needed a battery jump that he hadn’t gotten to yet, and Scott was happy enough to drop it in favor of talking about and stalking Allison, again. That situation hadn’t yet gotten to the point where Stiles was going to shove Scott at his dad for a discussion on legalities, but it was getting there. And that was coming from the guy who knew exactly what that lecture sounded like—he’d been a party to a version of it as soon as the news came though that Jackson was filing a restraining order against him, not that Stiles cared that much.

The monster showed up a few times, scrambling the pack and giving Stiles a heart attack every time, but the thing hadn’t killed any more people while Stiles was watching, which was a definite relief. He did feel a sick tinge of guilt, thinking that, but Stiles had plenty of practice pushing down guilt when the situation called for it.

Eventually, though, Stiles had to break out Roscoe. It wasn’t his car’s fault that it had become an accessory of murder, and if things went well then no more people would die. He wasn’t going to be able to carry the mountain ash on his bike and get to the rave in time anyway.

And then he goes, and it doesn’t make a lick of difference. The kanima is still at large, and there are a dozen people going through the same helpless paralysis that he’d felt only two weeks before. Danny starts giving him looks at school, like he knows something, but all Stiles can focus on is getting through the day without having a panic attack when wind brushed the back of his neck at lacrosse.

Of course, everything went to shit and less than two weeks later he’s been paralyzed again, and people he cared for were dead. He didn’t see it happen like with the mechanic, but that didn’t make finding Deputy Graeme’s body at the front any easier. And it certainly didn’t help him keep his wits around himself when both he and Derek were affected.

By that point, Roscoe did probably need a battery jump by the lack of usage. It might have been irrational, but it was something that Stiles could control so it was as good a coping mechanism as anything else.

Stiles pushed himself up the big hill again, too tired to care much except that he didn’t really want to expend the energy to bike up it more than the once. He got to school, locked his bike, and no one even looked his way. He pretended not to notice.

Nearly a month after the mechanic died, the kanima was still at large and the moon was full. Scott pushed Stiles around in a way that Stiles hadn’t tolerated from anyone, ever, before apologizing as he came back to himself. Stiles knew better than to take it personally at this point.

Stiles stood in his driveway, deciding if it was even worth going to school that day. There was lacrosse practice, but Stiles wasn’t on first line and wouldn’t ever be. Maybe a pop quiz in math, but that was about it, aside from Scott being in excellent shape to start throwing him back into walls again.

Just as he’d decided to go back inside, someone pulled up in front of his house in a swanky car and knocked the horn. Stiles stared at it a moment, mind whirring, before the window opened up.

“You coming, sweetheart?” Peter Hale drawled from the driver side.

“Weren’t you dead?” Stiles asked.

“Do I look dead?”

“You look like an escapee from Renaissance hell. Or maybe a rich person mental hospital. Don’t you know how to do buttons up?”

“Don’t be boring, Stiles,” Peter flashed a smarmy grin.

 “Right,” Stiles sighed, shuffling sideways towards the bike. “Because not wanting to die is boring.”

Peter rolled his eyes and shut the window as Stiles started pushing the bike down his driveway. Stiles ignored him. The school was far enough away that he was going to have to rush if he wanted to get there in time for lacrosse practice.

* * *

Stiles let himself outside into the warm March weather. A car sat in his driveway again, window rolled down. It was too dark to make out the details, but since the County had given the Sheriff back his job, it could only be… “Can’t take a hint, Zombiewolf?”

“I think that would be you, Stiles.” Peter was smiling but his eyes weren’t.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, nope.” Stiles made for his bike. “It’s too early for this. Not doing this today, Stalkerwolf.”

“I’m not doing this for fun either, you know.”

“Then why are you doing it?” Stiles glared as thoroughly as he could, with the tired-anger of the early morning after a research binge. It didn’t seem to impress Peter whatsoever, but he could dream.

“Wouldn’t you like to find out?” Peter patted the seat.

Stiles decided that he’d had quite enough and biked off without a backwards glance. He heard Peter’s car move, but since he wasn’t being followed, he ignored it.

* * *

It may have been a Saturday, but to Coach Finstock that had only meant that they had more time to practice without needing to be interrupted by the boring minutia of the literature and mathematics. Between the talk with Morell the day before and the screaming nightmares, Stiles wanted to just hit the snooze button and ignore the world.

Unfortunately, the championship game was about a week away, and it was the best chance that he’d had all season to actually play, so he forced himself out of bed and a mug of coffee into his body before pushing outside to brave the now-familiar long ride to the school.

Peter wasn’t waiting for him, which felt weirdly strange after even only two two days of it. He pursed his lips at the spot in the driveway for a moment before forcing himself to get on the bike and get to the school before he’d be late enough for Coach to make him do extra suicides.

Stiles shook his head to remind himself about what he was doing. And not doing. Just because Peter wasn’t going to be a permanent part of his morning routine didn’t mean he had to let it get to him. Just the opposite, except that he might stop by the old Hale house to see if something else was going on, above and beyond the kanima. He didn’t have the time right then to wonder about what-ifs.

So he went to practice, did his usual mediocre job. He got in a goal that was probably just Danny going easy on him during drills, but Coach patted him on the shoulder like it was an actual success. He looked at Scott, after, but wasn’t surprised to see that he was being ignored again. The sun rose quickly, and by the time it was high noon they were all sweaty and gross. Thankfully, they were done for the day. Stiles slipped past Scott and Jackson, managing to get out of the locker room before anyone could follow.

Except his bike wasn’t where he left it. He frowned at the rack, wondering if he misremembered where he’d put it, until he heard a car honking behind him. He turned to look. Darn it.

“Hello, Stiles. Wonderful seeing you here.” Peter called out.

Stiles stomped up to his car. “What did you do to my bike, asshole?”

“Oh, that old thing. It’s mostly fine, in the trunk. I hope you have a pump for those tires.” Peter gestured back. “Now, get into the car, before I come out and make you.”

 “Fine.” Stiles went up to the passenger seat and climbed in. “What’s going on.”

Peter sped off in response. “What are you planning with Gerard Argent?”

“Whoa, _what_?”

“Do I need to repeat myself like you’re a child?”

“I’m not planning anything with Principal Argent! Why the hell would I? He’s a creep.”

“You’re not lying,” Peter hums, taking a turn too quickly, which knocked Stiles against a window.

“Ow, dude! What the hell? And why the hell would I be working with him?” Stiles rubbed at his head.

“Because Scott is.” Peter stopped the car and turned to watch Stiles’s face.

Stiles stopped moving. “ _What?_ ”

* * *

On Monday morning, Stiles climbed into Peter’s car, dumping his bike with its newly-reinflated tires in the back. “Drop me off far enough from the school that I can make it look like I biked in,” he instructed.

“Good morning, Stiles.” Peter replied, as he set the car to reverse.

“Why did you even come around again? You know I’m not working against you now, and I can get around on my own just fine.”

“So you planned on taking your Jeep today?” Peter raised an eyebrow.

“Biking is healthier.” Stiles stared out the window.

“Right.”

* * *

The rest of the week passes much the same. Stiles asks his father to come to the championship lacrosse game, gushes about it at dinner to avoid talking about any of the rest of the madness that had infected both of their lives. Peter kept picking him up in the mornings, and Stiles was finding that he actually liked spending time with the guy when he wasn’t insane and bite-y. No more kanima attacks on anything he knows. And Scott still isn’t talking with him, except for the basics about school, which might actually be worse than if he’d been flat out ignored.

And then the big game happens, which may actually be ‘the most dangerous game’ for how well it goes for Stiles, when he finds himself beaten on the ground in front of Erica and Boyd. Woozily, he thinks that if Peter hadn’t believed him about not being in league with Gerard, he should now. He screams when he hears what might be the front door opening, and Erica and Boyd join, though it doesn’t seem to help. They’re stuck.

Stiles thinks that if he ever hears Scott talk about Allison as some kind of innocent he’s going to punch him in the face, brother or no. Scratch that—if he ever sees Scott again, he’s going to punch the guy in the face for thinking that working with _Gerard Argent, zero-morals hunter extraordinaire_ was a good idea.

Eventually Chris Argent shows up, some kind of pained look on his face, and lets them all out. They’re grateful, of course, and the wolves both run off without a look back even as Stiles leans against the doorway. His head feels numb, his face is bleeding, and he doesn’t even want to think about what his ribs look like. No werewolf healing over here, no sir.

Argent watches where the teenage werewolves had run off for just a moment before offering to help Stiles wrap his ribs and drive him home. Stiles took the medical supplies and refused the help. Half an hour later, Stiles finds himself hugging his dad as if he didn’t have bruised ribs, wondering if he was missing some kind of final showdown somewhere, wondering if he cared.

As Stiles climbs the stairs to change out of his grimy lacrosse gear, he hears his dad calling Scott. When he gets into his room, he calls Peter.

“Oh, good. You’re alive. Get Lydia and come to the warehouse district. It’s starting.” A dial tone.

_A dial tone. What is he supposed to do with that?_

Stiles stares at the phone a moment longer. Peter had told him that he’d had a plan, and Stiles had agreed on it at the time, so he was going to just have to suck it up, but the timing of it couldn’t have been worse if it had been _during_ the actual game. His chest felt like it was on fire, and if he’d had any trouble breathing he’d be on a trip to the hospital regardless.

He’d just decided to get up when he heard knocking on his door. “Go away Dad!” He called out.

“It’s me,” Lydia’s voice came through the door.

Stiles did a quick check around his room, deeming it clean enough even as he went to the door. There was the pile of birthday gifts in the corner, but he couldn’t hide that quickly. Besides, Lydia wouldn’t be here for long. He was a Stiles on a mission after all—a mission that was, for once, not winning Lydia over.

He wasn’t necessarily expecting the tearstained cheeks. They stand for a moment before Stiles invites her in and starts looking around for tissues.

“I want to help Jackson,” Lydia twists her necklace with Jackson’s key on it.

“I can help you with that,” Stiles replies, leading her out to his car.

* * *

It's his first time driving the Jeep since the last kanima massacre, and there was no way that this trip wasn’t going to end in another, plus a trip to the shop. One does not drive cars through warehouse walls unscathed, after all. Maybe he’d convince Peter to deal with it this time, Stiles thought inanely through the panic. It was his fault that Stiles was doing this in the first place. Lydia was watching the world pass by, breaths just as even and controlled as Stiles’s, so at least he wasn’t alone in all of this.

They get to the warehouse, and Stiles’s vision is swimming. Drowning, maybe, like he talked about with Morell. He doesn’t see Peter anywhere, but Derek is there, and Jackson, and Scott, Isaac, and even Chris Argent. And Gerard, laying on the ground. He leans against his much-abused Jeep as he watches the confrontation, more than ready for the night to be over even as he knew just how important all of this was. Gerard had to be stopped, and so did Scott if he was aligning himself with that guy.

Lydia made it clear just how much she loved Jackson, and Gerard started moving. As much as he didn’t want to interrupt the pair of them, he had to do something. Some kind of warning that Derek, maybe, or Peter if he was there, could hear. He was too exhausted to think of something more than “Gerard’s getting away.”

And then—the magic happens. Jackson becomes Jackson again, like the toad the princess kissed, with an added dose of assholery and wolfishness.

And Peter howls, Gerard Argent pinned under him, throat clawed out and clearly dead.

* * *

Peter drives Stiles home in the Jeep, forcing the others to find their own ways home. Derek gives both of them a look before running off. Stiles doesn’t even look at Scott. Come Monday, he’d have no choice, but he didn’t want to hear any excuses tonight.

When they’re nearly at the Sheriff’s house, Peter breaks the silence. “All of that would have healed by now if you were a werewolf.”

“You’re not an alpha anymore.”

“Even so.”

“I’m happy being human” Stiles thought about shrugging, but decided against it. “And I don’t have any leather.”

Peter hummed again, and stopped the car a few streets away from their destination. “I’ll be seeing more of you around.” It was a statement, not a request.

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Sure, Zombiewolf.”

Peter pulled Stiles close as the teenager came around the dented front of the car, hugging him. Scent-marking him, Stiles realized. “Good. If I’m going to have to deal with my nephew’s choice of teenagers with self-esteem issues, I may as well have one tolerable person with me.”

“D’awww, I knew you didn’t hate me,” Stiles smiled, scent-marking him in return. Peter’s eyes glowed blue for a moment, which made Stiles smirk. “Like you too, Sneakywolf.”

And then Stiles climbed back into the Jeep and rolled away, leaving Peter there, giggling a little by the time he got home. They had a ways to go, but at least the night ended with a success.


End file.
